


Winter Bonding

by rawrkinjd



Series: Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Dom/sub Play, Eskel Has a Big Dick (The Witcher), Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Polyamory, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sub Lambert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23837776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: After watching Eskel and Jaskier with Lambert, Geralt decides he would like to make Lambert purr too.Reader Request (multiple): Will Geralt ever get to find out what the collar's about?
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717648
Comments: 246
Kudos: 1048





	1. Trust

* * *

When they told him at the university, Geralt had scarcely believed it. They had to be talking about a different person. Not _the_ Lambert. The man that spoke with his fists first, and his words second. However, during the following winter at Kaer Morhen, Geralt couldn't doubt his own eyes.

Lambert sprawled out on the rug at Eskel’s feet. Lambert draped over Jaskier’s lap while the bard pets his back. _Purring._ Lambert growling when Geralt happened to walk by while he was having his head petted, and immediately being reprimanded by Eskel with a tug of the collar and cessation of attention. On that occasion, Lambert rubbed his head on Eskel’s knee with a quiet whimper; an apology. Geralt left them in peace, because he noticed a slight hesitance in Lambert’s gaze.

Geralt wasn't naive. He ensured that there was enough time each day where he was occupied with chores, or working with Vesemir, for Lambert to find either Jaskier or Eskel without his presence. Geralt began to understand. But it staggered him still. Lambert’s an asshole as a defence mechanism, and he doesn’t trust easily. He’d sooner rip someone’s head off than have them call him _weak._ He stomped other trainees into the ground at the beginning of his training at Kaer Morhen for calling him _scrawny._

Then Geralt observed more carefully. 

How Lambert went from being tense and unhappy at the start of the winter, to relaxed and content within a few weeks. Like someone had taken the weight away from him - the Path, the injustice and the responsibility of it all - and he was free to just exist. He watched the easy way Lambert accepted affection from both Jaskier and Eskel. In fact, he actively pursued it. Putting his head in their laps, sitting at their feet. He brought Jaskier _flowers_ one day - a clutch of wild daisies and buttercups that could only be found right at the bottom of the valley this far into winter - which earned him a good few hours of petting; he curled about Jaskier on the rug in Eskel’s room while the bard strummed on his lute.

No snarking. No snarling. Not during these quiet sessions. And the collar didn’t seem to be as common anymore. Just a small, pleased smile every time he received positive attention. Lambert had found a small haven of light and warmth in an existence that he otherwise despised. 

Geralt understood a little more.

He saw the happiness reflect back on his two lovers every time Lambert melts against them. They wanted to reward him, to make him feel content and at ease. Geralt realised he wanted to be able to give that to Lambert too. To hear him purr because of something that Geralt is doing, because he loved the way it looked and the way it sounded.

He wasn’t sure how.

Jaskier had noticed his interest, and one evening, sprawled up against his chest with Eskel draped over their legs and snoozing, he decided to mention it, “So, Lambert.”

“Hmm.” Geralt was too deep in thought at first to realise this was a prompt for discussion. He’s getting better at it. Much better than he ever was. So Jaskier waited patiently, blue eyes still focused on Geralt’s face now that he is upright. The Witcher noticed, shifted, and cleared his throat, “He - you’re - hmm.”

Jaskier took pity, because Geralt had the vocabulary and the emotional intelligence to discuss this, but it got muddled; he thought so deeply and profoundly after all his years of experience that it was sometimes difficult to arrange his thoughts into coherence. A scaffold is needed. “He enjoys being praised, giving up his inhibitions and being taken care of. The term is submissive, but it’s not about being weak or cowed. He seeks it out whenever he needs to feel at peace.”

Geralt nodded. “You’re never violent with him.” It was a statement, not a question. The harshest reprimand he had seen was that light tug on the collar; a reminder of the rules. It could hardly be called a punishment. 

“Never,” Jaskier sits up a little further, brushing strands of soft white hair behind Geralt’s ears. “He doesn’t need anymore violence in his life. He’s had his fill and then some. It’s about feeling safe, of giving someone else your responsibility, your control, and then you can just… well, float.” A big smile.

“And it’s not just about sex.” Another statement. Geralt was confirming his own observations.

“No. It can be. He definitely enjoys it. By Melitele, I enjoy it.” He smirked at the vague grunt of affirmation from Eskel. He could be excused from participating in the conversation due to his _athletic_ display over the last few hours. Even Witchers needed time to recharge. “It used to be that he initiated everything, while he was working out what he wanted, but now he loves it when we do. Surprises him. Like he’s still amazed that we value him so much. It’s… well, it’s adorable.” Jaskier paused. “I don’t think he’d want you to call him adorable.”

“Want me - ?”

Jaskier raised a brow, with a little smirk. “There is a purpose behind this conversation. You’re not one for small talk.”

“Hmm.” Geralt nodded his head, and then realised he couldn’t leave it at that, so thought carefully about the next part. “I would like to be able to make Lambert feel that. To share that with you. I’m just worried that I’ve - that the damage is irreparable.” He lifted his right arm from the bed. There was no scar on his. There was a thin red line on Lambert’s though, and Geralt saw it every time they trained in the courtyard, bathed in the springs below Kaer Morhen and ate dinner while they played cards. A reminder of how he’d nearly taken everything from Lambert in his delirium.

Jaskier smiled gently and stroked his fingers down Geralt’s forearm, relishing the soft whisper of fine hair beneath his fingertips. “He has forgiven you for that, but you’re right, you need to show your tender side. He has a lot of respect for you. Believes he needs to measure up in everything he does. He needs to know you won’t judge him. To see how gentle you are in that soft, gooey centre.”

Geralt gave Jaskier the neutral, set brow look that informed him that he disliked this description. So Jaskier leaned in, met his eyes, and said it again, “Soft. And gooey.” A small smile. _Victory._ Jaskier kissed that smile, because he could, his tongue lapping along the seam of closed lips until they opened for him. When he had finished his lazy exploration and he could feel Geralt’s sedate heartbeat begin to pick up a little beneath his palm, he drew back and buried his face against Geralt’s neck; his scent was heady, so musky and warm. “All you have to do is show him you care.”

“How do I do that?” Geralt stroked a hand down Jaskier’s bicep, head tilted so that he could bury his face in tousled brown hair.

“Be you, Geralt,” Eskel grumbled, finally stirring enough from his slumber to be useful. He stretched and rolled out from under the blanket, eyes flickering across the room in search of his braies and the half-finished tankard of mead he knew was lying around somewhere. “If you’re anything but genuine, he’ll know. It’s all about trust.”

“How will I know if it’s working?” Geralt needed to be sure he wasn’t doing more harm than good.

“Well, with me, I - Jaskier - made him lick milk from a saucer on the floor as a forfeit, but I’m not sure it’ll work here, we’ll have to wait and see - _bard_ , where did you put my shirt?” His irritation feigned, Eskel wrapped a hand around Jaskier’s ankle.

“Hmm. I think that came off on the floor below. Suppose you’ll just have to be shirtless from now until the spring, Witcher. Pity.” Jaskier yelped as he was snatched from Geralt’s lap and proceeded to put up _some_ fight for his own damn dignity, but was soon sprawled out on his back beneath Eskel’s lips and kneading at the blankets.

Geralt watched with soft eyes. Genuine. He could do that.

***

Geralt waited for a safe opportunity, and then made his first move. When Lambert brought him breakfast one morning, he thanked him and brushed a palm over the back of his hand, gentle but firm; clearly deliberate rather than accidental. Lambert looked startled, but Geralt pretended not to notice while pouring a truly monstrous amount of extra honey into his porridge. His sweet tooth knew no bounds. 

But _Lambert_ noticed. So sensitive to even a modicum of tenderness aimed in his direction, how could he not? Perhaps it was a fluke. Geralt was always brotherly - slaps on the shoulder, embraces when they arrived after a long season on the Path, and they exchanged insults as readily as any family did - but he was never _tender._ Lambert needed to test it.

The next day he knew that Geralt was going down to the mines with Vesemir to check that the kikimora hatchery had not re-established itself during the summer and autumn, so Lambert got up early, went down to the stables and prepared Roach. By the time Geralt stepped through the doors, she was fed, brushed and saddled, blinking at him impatiently as if he were late for a pre-arranged appointment. Lambert held out the reins wordlessly.

Geralt stroked Roach’s velvety nose and took the offered straps. With his other arm, he pulled Lambert into an embrace, bringing his face to rest against his shoulder, palm gliding down the back of his head and neck where it finished with the softest squeeze, “Thank you. This was really good of you.” 

“Just softening you up for our card game tonight.” Lambert smirked, but as soon as Geralt smiled and left, his eyes widened and he swallowed hard. _Fuck._ Not a fluke. Perhaps he was - could he be taking the piss? Lambert’s eyes narrowed. Geralt didn’t do that. _Lambert_ would do that. But not Geralt. 

Now, usually, this would be the point Lambert should sit down and talk with Geralt about it, discuss boundaries and everything Jaskier had said he needed to if he ever found someone else he wanted to trust. Jaskier said it was important because not everyone would understand him as well as Eskel did. _Communication - blah - blah. Pet me, buttercup._ He decided to perform more experiments instead.

Brought Geralt some wine. Another embrace and two strokes this time. Performed some maintenance on his swords and armour. _Fuck._ A palm over his jaw and around the back of his neck that made Lambert feel a bit weak, and then the embrace. This pattern continued for two weeks. He tried to find just one thing every day. And then he added in the extra bit of challenge and was bitingly sarcastic during training to see if it broke… _it_ , whatever this was, only to receive more affection in the afternoon. _Not a drill._

Lambert discovered that he was looking at Geralt’s hands a lot after that, especially when they were beside Eskel’s on the table at dinner. Apart from paler skin, they could belong to the same man; same pattern of calluses, similar lines across the palms and pretty much the same size. Eskel had a scar across his knuckles from a forktail, whereas Geralt had a line across the heel from an endrega. They were strong from wielding a sword, rough from handling a whetstone, climbing rocks to hidden caverns in search of monsters. Like his. Competent, weathered, trustworthy. Lambert didn’t realise the significance of this act of comparison, but Jaskier did. The bard cast quick glances across to Lambert every evening as he performed this short, silent ritual of his, and followed his eyes as they looked to and fro.

For this reason, when Geralt walked into Eskel’s bedroom and slumped down onto the large couch they’d had to drag in because two armchairs were just not enough anymore, Jaskier decided to nudge him along a little. 

They sat in the usual haphazard pile they spent their evenings in once Vesemir had retired. Eskel always the foundation, with his elbow on the arm and a book in his hand; Jaskier sprawled across his lap, lute, book or notepad depending on his mood on his own, and Lambert at Eskel’s feet where they could take it turns fussing over him. The rules were clear and easy to follow; he had to have his shirt off, he had to be in contact with Eskel at all times, and he had to ask permission to leave. If he was still awake that is. Falling asleep under their care was one of Lambert’s favourite things to do, and he was already dozing against Eskel’s leg as strong fingers moved across his scalp in slow, firm circles. 

Jaskier shuffled carefully in Eskel’s lap and picked up the hand Geralt draped across the back of the couch. Maneuvering it proved a little awkward - Geralt didn’t resist, there was just _a lot_ of arm - and Jaskier shoved his book from his lap so he could wriggle a little more. Eskel was looking at him with a raised eyebrow at this point. _Are you expecting a reaction here?_ But Jaskier just placed his other hand over the Witcher’s face, palm on his mouth, fingers splayed, to dismiss him. _Later._ Slowly, he slipped Geralt’s hand down to the Witcher on the floor, his own fingers behind Geralt’s bigger ones to guide them under Lambert’s jaw. 

Blunt nails scratched lightly, and Geralt watched goosebumps flare across Lambert’s shoulders; the Witcher's eyes remained mostly closed and he nuzzled briefly into the leg at his cheek. Geralt could smell the warm, doughy scent of happiness emanating from him like a summer haze, and he leaned nearer to Eskel to run his thumb down the back of Lambert’s neck in firm circles. _The purr._ “Lambert, lean on Geralt, I’m going to get a drink.” Eskel snapped his book closed and remained still until his orders were followed; Lambert flexed his back as he sat up straight, and then proceeded to flop against Geralt’s leg, head on his thigh and eyes closed. 

Jaskier grinned and rolled off Eskel’s lap so he could at least continue with the pretence of needing refreshment. “I’ll have one too, please.”

Lambert huffed. _Him too._

“And me.” Geralt chimed in, but didn’t look up from where he was now ruffling his fingertips through Lambert’s hair. _Who knew it would be so soft; it was longer than it usually was. His beard felt nice too. Cross between stubble and beard. Must be Jaskier making them groom properly. Did he like it behind his ear? Yes, he did. Is this what petting a cat would be like? He liked the scratches up the back of his neck, just check; yes, catalogue that one away for future._ Geralt began to memorise the strategy like he would a chapter of the bestiary or a new potion recipe, except the mission here was to make Lambert purr as much as possible. This was something Geralt could do that wasn't causing pain. He needed this as much as Lambert did.

“Three course meal while I’m down there?” Eskel rolled his eyes as he headed towards the bedroom door.

“Well, if you’re offering.” The stray throw pillow hit Jaskier squarely in the face.


	2. Rules

It took Geralt a while to get used to the dichotomy of the _two_ Lamberts. The one that heckled him in the courtyard while training, swore and cursed as they _finally_ patched the massive hole in the eastern wall and drank profusely while they played Gwent; he knew that one well. The one that now lounged over his lap in the evening in search of affection, kneeling and lying where told, was a foreign entity. 

Geralt had to learn the rules quickly from Eskel. The rules were important, because they made Lambert feel safe. He knew what to expect, and so it was easy for him to get what he wanted without fear of reprisal. There were different rules for different times. But they were simple enough. And even if Geralt forgot them, Lambert fell into the pattern easily; Geralt had to do nothing more than stroke and pet him until he purred. 

Then Lambert began to test the rules. He sat down more slowly when Eskel told him to. He started to be possessive over Jaskier, at one point wrapping around him on the rug and growling at both Eskel and Geralt when they came near, and then they found him in Eskel’s seat on the couch one evening. This was normal too, Geralt learned. One afternoon, Jaskier and Eskel sat down as he worked in the armoury. Jaskier looked mischievous, so Geralt had a general idea of the conversation before it even started.

“Time for stage two.” Jaskier perched on the bench next to him, pressed so close that Geralt could no longer run the whetstone down the length of the blade without catching the bard with his elbow.

“Stage two?” Geralt looked at Eskel, because he knew full well that Jaskier would try to make him guess, or provide a beautiful, poetic explanation that he would then have to dissect.

“Lambert’s pushing the boundaries, which means he wants to play,” Eskel murmured, and when Geralt raised an eyebrow. “He wants to fuck, but with caveats.” It didn’t always mean that, but the fact that he kept gnawing on Jaskier made it quite conclusively _that_ this time around. 

“I’m familiar.” Geralt put the whetstone aside, because Jaskier was now basically in his lap and if he shifted the sword too quickly it’d cut through the bard’s skin like a hot knife through the butter. Weapon and tools abandoned, Geralt extracted himself from Jaskier to rinse his hands in a nearby water butt. They had paused. Waiting. Giving him the option to decline. He looked at each expectant face, considered, and then, “What do you need me to do?” The question ‘ _why doesn’t he just ask?’_ was also floating around in Geralt’s head, but he had a feeling that he had a few of those types of questions to answer himself, so it was easier to fall in line.

“I have an elaborate plan. Eskel’s on board,” Jaskier qualified it because he knew the word ‘elaborate’ was not one Geralt liked to hear. “I’m not really - I don’t really want to use too many ropes. Still feeling a little iffy about them myself, so we have his collar, some leather cuffs and I managed to get a tanner to make him a little present, he’s going to _love_ it - .”

Geralt listened patiently as Jaskier explained the session and his role in it. They played to his strengths. He was fine with that. The safeword took him by surprise, “Merigold?” A small, amused smile. “Does Triss know?”

Eskel shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Oddly enough, hasn’t come up in conversation.”

Geralt nodded thoughtfully. “And Vesemir?”

“Ahh.” Jaskier hadn’t considered the scope of his plan. It would require the whole castle. “Well, perhaps he could go out hunting for the morning? The thick snows haven’t fallen yet.”

“And who’s going to tell him? Because you know he’ll ask why, and he can smell a lie at thirty paces.” Geralt murmured. He and Eskel slowly raised their left fists in preparation for the usual deciding ‘duel’, only to pause and look at Jaskier at precisely the same time.

The bard blustered. “Oh, no - come on, I can’t - you can’t be ser-- oh, for -,” he sighed, outnumbered by the raised eyebrows and the wry little smirks. “Fine. I’ll - I’ll tell Vesemir about our little sex session. I’m _so_ looking forward to that conversation.”

Jaskier got as far as the word ‘play’ before Vesemir raised both hands for him to stop and went to get his crossbow. 

***

Seated in the grand hall with a brimming mug of mead, Lambert was sorting through a new deck in preparation for taking the rest of Geralt’s money that evening. He looked up abruptly when the three amigos sat down on the bench opposite - bard in the middle, flanked. Felt a bit like an invasion force. Lambert’s eyes narrowed. “If this is an intervention, you’re about fifty fucking years too late.” A wry smirk followed by a mouthful of his drink and he returned to his deck.

“No, dear heart. I want to play a game. You’re going to be a good boy and listen very carefully, because I won’t repeat myself.” Jaskier spoke softly, and Lambert paused in the action of placing another card down. It snapped onto the table as it flicked free of the tension against his finger, and he raised his eyes slowly. Jaskier continued, “You’ve been flouting the rules a little bit this week. So, we’re going to remind you of them this morning. In a moment, you’re going to have a ten second head start and then Geralt and Eskel are going to come hunting for you. For every five minutes you stay out of their grasp, you will get a single request for our game today. Anything you wish.”

“Anything?” Lambert glanced very briefly at Geralt, but said nothing more.

“Anything.” Jaskier indicated to Geralt, who pulled Lambert’s collar from where it sat next to him on the bench. “The only restriction is that it must be something you would accept yourself.” Lambert dipped his head, gaze settling on the collar coiled around Geralt’s fist; the leather creaked across his knuckles and Lambert felt a pressure building at the bottom of his spine. 

“Usual word?”

“Usual word.” Jaskier tapped his fingers, head tilted to the side. Lambert’s pupils were already wide, and he now placed the rest of his deck carefully on the table. “Well?”

“Yes.” A nod.

“Ten, nine -,” Jaskier began the countdown immediately and Lambert left the bench with the speed of a spooked rabbit bolting for its burrow, sprinting through the grand hall and disappearing up a flight of stairs. Fast. _Really fast_. “I hope you two are up to this. I’ve seen him scale the side of this castle in twenty minutes.”

“Don’t worry. We are.” Eskel rose slowly to his feet as the seconds ticked by and - _oh, sweet gods_ \- Geralt was stepping out over the table like a damn predator, muscles coiled and jaw clenched. There was definitely a growl too, low in his chest, like the ticking purr of an ulfhedinn. Both moved forward intently, eyes set on the end of the hall, only restrained from their pursuit by Jaskier’s order. He could see the flush in their skin, the wideness of their pupils; excited, two wolves eager to hunt down their prey. 

Jaskier _adjusted_ himself as the countdown ended. “Get him.” 

The speed of their movements disturbed the air currents around them and Jaskier’s hair fluttered at the edges of his face. Some of the Gwent cards toppled to the floor as Geralt burst past, barely taking the lead ahead of Eskel. The bard leaned back and looked at the ceiling, “I’m very sorry about this, gentlemen,” he spoke to the ghosts of the Witchers he presumed still walked the halls. Vesemir assured him there were none, yet he still heard the old Witcher talking to them at night, “but have you fucking _seen_ them? You did this to yourselves.”

He stood, twisting his hips so that his erection didn’t catch on the edge of the table, and headed to Eskel’s room to prepare the gifts he had purchased for Lambert.

***

Lambert went as high as the second floor. He knew better than to isolate himself in a tower; if he went _up_ , they just had to pursue until he had no choice but to sprout wings. The second floor was a circuit. He could dodge up to the third if they cornered him in an alcove, and drop down to the first again if they blocked the far stairwell. What he _didn’t_ count on was the speed of the old bastards in catching up with him.

He caught his first glimpse of Eskel about two minutes after he set off. They must have followed his scent as, even though he wasn’t necessarily physically taxed, he was already sweating. The image of Geralt’s hand wrapped through his collar was still imprinted on his fucking brain. Several times he caught sight of one of his hunters at the end of a corridor and quickly changed direction, but they were effectively working together to trap him in a single corner of the castle, regardless of what floor he was on.

He dodged around a corner and nearly ran bodily into Eskel, barely managing to twist into a stairwell before a large hand could snag him. Descending about three at a time and steaming down another corridor, Lambert caught his breath in an alcove. Sitting low to the ground, deep breaths through his nose brought the drum of his heart under control. He closed his eyes and listened.

 _Nothing. Fuck._ They were doing exactly the same thing. Had to be ten minutes. Two requests. Why was he hard? Made running _really fucking difficult._ He’d played hide and seek as a kid in these same halls, yet knowing that Geralt and Eskel were hunting him for… _fuck._ Yes, that. _That was the problem._

He froze when he heard a quiet snuffle down the corridor to his right. A Witcher scenting the air. It echoed at the opposite end a moment later and he clenched his teeth. Both sides covered, no exit. Had to make a choice as to who he would outmanoeuvre.

Eskel _knew_ him better than Geralt. Knew the way he moved and would probably predict his trajectory before he got within ten paces. Geralt was marginally quicker and might manage to get an arm around him, but surprise would be on his side. 

Lambert burst from his hiding place and found Eskel far closer than expected; he twisted to the left and ran at full sprint towards Geralt. The Witcher hunkered down and moved forward at a slower pace, gaining some momentum for a shoulder tackle, but it worked to Lambert’s advantage. He kicked off the floor as he drew within two feet and managed a rather sloppy, sideways flip over Geralt’s shoulder. His landing was _flawless_ \- obviously - and after a few staggered paces he broke into a sprint again.

The grunt of surprise would have been deeply gratifying if Geralt hadn’t recovered so fucking quickly, and suddenly Lambert was trying to outrun the White Wolf himself through the halls of Kaer Morhen. No small feat. The distance was closing; Lambert glanced over his shoulder to check his lead and he realised Eskel wasn’t in pursuit as well. _Where the f--?_

It was like running into a brick wall at stomach height. Bigger, broader, just _more_ than Lambert in every way. Eskel took him down with a low tackle, arms wrapping about his thighs and shoulder driving into his abdomen. His own momentum did the most damage, and Lambert hit the deck, winded and more than a little fucking startled. Of course Geralt and Eskel would be effective pack hunters together. The whole thing was a fucking fix. _Fuck you, buttercup._

Unwilling to go down without a fight, Lambert thrashed and squirmed, fingers clawing at the flagstones to try and pull himself free even as Eskel straddled his hips and pushed his head firmly to the floor. “Yield. You’re done.” Geralt arrived a handful of seconds later and dropped to his knees. Lambert stilled as the collar wrapped about his neck, the cool touch of the leather followed by the graze of Eskel’s teeth against the slope of his shoulder. 

“Good hunt, little wolf.” Geralt’s voice, low, amused and edged with a primal lust, settled straight in the pit of Lambert’s stomach, and he drew in a deep, shuddering breath.


	3. Play

“Three requests,” Jaskier smiled. He sat in the centre of the couch with his arms spread over the back. “Every time you speak, dear heart, say ‘I need’ or ‘I want’. It counts. Are we clear?”

“Yes.” Lambert eyed the belts on the sofa with trepidation and retreated until he met a broad chest at his back. The first whiffs of fear, sharp and bitter, simmered at the base of his scent.

Eskel’s hands wrapped his waist, sweeping up beneath his shirt to settle a warm hand below his chest. “It’s alright. They’re not for that.” His voice low and gentle in Lambert’s ear, a kiss nuzzled just beneath. 

When Eskel drew away again, he took Lambert's shirt with him and Jaskier approached with the belts. He took one of Lambert’s hands and ran his fingers over the silver buckles and the leather, watching his eyes brighten with interest. The straps were all connected to a silver ring in the middle, and it was this that Jaskier placed in the centre of Lambert’s chest. "A gift for you, my love." Eskel reached over and passed two belts over his shoulders, and the other two wrapped his ribs. 

“And these.” Jaskier held up two leather cuffs with steel rings on the back of each one, and Lambert held out his arms obediently. “Such a good boy.” With the cuffs in place, Eskel took each arm and bent it gently at the elbow to clip his wrists between his shoulder blades. It drew his shoulders back and pressed his chest into the harness in the most delicious way. Jaskier tucked a finger underneath a shoulder strap, admiring the tug of leather across tanned skin. “Too tight?”

“No.” Lambert murmured. It had just the right level of bite. When he inhaled, the edges of the straps pressed into his nipples and it sent subtle tremors through his torso. They were well-made and especially for him, the leather on the inside of the cuffs was soft and supple; no one had ever cared about him enough to worry about the comfort of his _fucking_ _wrists._ It made him feel good, and he flexed against the harness again to feel it tug at him. _Very good._

Eskel hooked a finger through the silver ring in his chest and pulled him over to the foot of the bed. Geralt sat there, watching proceedings with passive interest, but when Lambert dropped to his knees in front of him, he leaned forward. 

For the first time in their shared history, Lambert finally understood why people cowered under Geralt’s glare. His eyes were inquisitive, soft even, but his gaze still held a weight that made Lambert feel very _seen._ He swallowed thickly and tried desperately not to shrink in on himself, but it was so fucking hard because it was fucking _Geralt._ And then, “Very nice, little wolf.” Lambert’s ears perked and his eyes widened, because Geralt purred it, warm with desire, as he ran a finger beneath the strap at Lambert’s ribs. 

Jaskier smiled as Lambert’s shoulders squared and his chin rose, side-eyeing Eskel with a little ‘told you so’ flutter of his eyes. A jut of the chin conceded the defeat and the Witcher stripped his shirt over his head. Jaskier shed his doublet and padded over on bare feet to sit down on the floor at the foot of the bed between Geralt’s boots; he leaned his head back against the edge of the mattress. “Look at how beautiful you are, proud and strong.” Eskel dropped down onto his knees behind Lambert, who automatically tried to lean back into his presence, but Eskel was careful to keep himself just out of reach. Not yet.

Geralt leaned forward though and tilted his head to inhale the scent at Lambert’s neck. His medallion tapped Jaskier in the back of the head, and the bard shuffled forward until his face was barely an inch from Lambert's abdomen. Very much looking forward to running his lips all over it.

The tickle of white hair as it dropped across his shoulder made Lambert shudder, and he scented Geralt in turn. Familiar, but richer. Arenaria, spring rains and something muskier that Lambert couldn’t place. When Geralt lifted his head, his face was so damn close, warm breath fluttering over damp lips, and suddenly Lambert was leaning in for… and Geralt pulled away. “Strong enough to earn three requests,” Geralt rumbled, voice smoother than honey. “Do you have a request for me?” 

Lambert swallowed and dropped his eyes, neck flushing. A knuckle pressed against the soft skin beneath his jaw, “Look at me.” Geralt didn’t brook argument and Lambert’s eyes lifted obediently, “Tell me.”

“I want,” Lambert ground his teeth, “a kiss.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt shuffled forward, and drew Lambert towards him with a single finger under his chin. He sucked gently on Lambert’s lower lip before bringing their mouths together, tongue sweeping inside in long, indulgent strokes at first, becoming more possessive as Lambert opened up. Sucking, nipping. When Geralt finally pulled away, it was to speak quietly at his ear. "We're gunna' breed you full, little wolf. Mark you as ours. Remind you who you belong to," Geralt moved just enough to admire amber eyes, wide in anticipation, listening to the stuttered pants and the acceleration of his heartbeat. "Tell me you want that."

"Yes," Lambert's voice broke, but his scent remained void of fear. Desire burned through it though, rich and animalic, and Geralt's partial arousal hardened to a painful degree. Until that point he'd been playing a role; the hunt had been exciting - mainly because he could smell the fervour on Eskel as much as Lambert - and Lambert _did_ look very appetising with leather and silver framing his physique, but it was that scent that clawed its way under Geralt's skin. It appealed to the slumbering primal instinct in the base of his chest, and he inhaled a deep breath to steady his control. Allowing himself a small indulgence, he ran his teeth along the side of Lambert's neck, tongue lapping a final taste, before he sat back on his elbows.

Eskel's heat pressed to his back, big hands swept down Lambert's waist and he sucked in a sharp gasp, wrists twisting in the bindings as strong fingers pulled open the ties of his trousers and wrapped the length of his cock. Jaskier's lips were on his abdomen, soft lips mapping the curves of the muscles there with deep, reverent kisses. Lambert moaned and shuddered, head tilting to Eskel's as it settled near his shoulder. The fact that Geralt had now freed his own erection and was stroking it lazily as he watched just made Lambert dizzier. 

"I want -," he managed to stutter out as Eskel ran his thumb over the head of his cock and Jaskier's mouth drew nearer. "- can I?"

"Can you what, little wolf?" Geralt's voice barely growls now, his palm still working slowly from base to tip. He was teasing himself, not searching for release.

"I want to -," Lambert tried to lean forward but Eskel's hands kept him steady until he voiced his demand. "- suck you off. Please." Blurted out as he felt his mouth water. Fuck. Yes. That. He wanted that. 

"C'mon then." Geralt lifted his palm away and beckoned him forward. Lambert had to straddle Jaskier's chest because the bard wasn't budging, only dropped back onto his elbows and slid between the legs of the two Witchers in front of him. No sooner had Lambert's mouth wrapped the head of Geralt's cock did he feel the brush of the bard's soft lips on his. The resulting moan elicited a growl from deep in Geralt's chest, and he slid a hand behind Lambert's neck. "Mm. So good for me. How much can you take?" Lambert wanted to please. He really fucking did. So he took Geralt down until he gagged; the hand at his neck didn't force him to stay, but gently stroked circles as Geralt murmured praise.

Jaskier gripped Lambert's hips as he swallowed him, drawing away only to lap at the precum beading at his head, tasting him properly. His hands moved to take a handful each of Lambert's ass, spreading him for Eskel's fingers, slick with oil. Lambert shuddered at the first press of a fingertip inside him, back arching to present himself fully. Eskel's broad palm stroked across the small of his back as he worked him open, fingers sliding into the knuckle and pressing against soft walls until tight muscles relaxed. "You're doing so well." A low rumble that made warmth coil in Lambert's chest, even as his eyes began to water from the stretch in his mouth and the soreness in his throat. Geralt eased him away, wrapping his own hand at the base of his cock to limit what Lambert could take. 

Even prepared, Eskel still burned inside him. Lambert eased himself into it, half moaning, half sobbing over Geralt's cock. Eskel's gentle praise continued, broken only occasionally by a breathy moan or grunt as he gradually picked up the pace. The moment Eskel's fingers gripped through the straps of the harness for leverage and the leather pulled taut across his skin, Lambert came, his cry muffled against Geralt's clothed thigh as he fell away. Jaskier drank down every drop he had and then placed a kiss at his groin. "The first of many, my love. All for us." The bard squirmed out from his post and flopped onto the bed to kiss Geralt, anointing his tongue with Lambert's release. The Witcher growled greedily and bit at Jaskier's lips, fingers tightening at the back of Lambert's neck as swollen lips returned to his cock.

Jaskier slipped a hand through Geralt's hair and gave back just as much fierce passion, sucking at Geralt's tongue and pulling away to bite kisses down his jaw. He stopped and hopped off the bed only when he heard Eskel growl, the slap of wet skin fading as he pressed himself deep. "Fuck, Lambert. Your ass is -." Eskel’s head dropped back, hips rocking only slightly as he pulsed inside tight walls. After the hunt and watching Lambert submit to Geralt, there was no way he had the stamina to last as long as he usually did. Every muscle felt wired. He withdrew and rose shakily to his feet, accepting the kiss sprung upon him by Jaskier in passing. 

"Up, my love. Good boy. On your back." Jaskier tugged Lambert under the bicep and paused only to let Eskel readjust the placement of the cuffs from back to front, easing the tension in Lambert's shoulders so that he could relax onto his back, knees lifted over Jaskier's shoulders. Lambert arched as Jaskier pushed inside him, hole left slick and sensitive by Eskel, who now set on Geralt, hungry kisses branding his neck. Jaskier moaned, "Oh gods, Lambert… you have no idea how good you feel right now. So wet from Eskel. Still greedy for it, aren't you? Want to be good for us." 

Lambert whimpered, canting his hips into the burn of it. Jaskier leaned back to watch oil and come drip through the seal of his cock and Lambert's rim and he ground himself forward with a quiet growl of need. There was something primal, and entirely filthy, about knowing that Eskel had been here and Geralt soon would be too. Lambert was theirs. In every way. They cared for him, loved him, made him feel both peace and ecstacy. Theirs. 

He was hard again, and Jaskier reached forward to milk another release from him while he drove deep, eyes flickering from the almost pained bliss on Lambert's face to the two Witchers growling and nipping at each other on the bed. Geralt's length was twitching, almost overstimulated, and Eskel was still teasing him; tonguing his nipples through his shirt and sucking marks into the pale skin of his throat. 

"Oh fuck, fuck yes." Jaskier made sure every inch pressed into Lambert with each stroke, fast and powerful, mouthing his own eulogy to the heavens as the Witcher whimpered and moaned, permanently arched from the bed as he rocked into every thrust. 

Lambert’s skin was on fire, the tug and shift of the leather felt so good it almost bordered on raw, and he came into Jaskier’s fist again. Less spilled over his fingers, but it still wracked through Lambert with shuddering force. Tears streaked down his face - _watering with pressure, definitely not fucking crying -_ as his teeth clenched and he could feel Jaskier’s heat filling him too. He’d never felt so used, _filled_ , and when his head fell to the side and caught sight of Geralt’s cock inside Eskel’s fist, he whimpered. He felt sore, stiff, but he still _wanted_ so badly. Wanted to be marked. Wanted them all to have him. To be theirs.

Jaskier withdrew gently, lower lip between his teeth as he watched some of his seed spill out with him. The thighs against his chest were quaking, and he moved his palms down them in long, soothing strokes until Lambert’s panting evened out. The Witcher found some coherence to make his request, “I want - need to - I want to -,” he paused, _some_ coherence, not _all_ , a moment passed, “- go on top - for Geralt - please.” Voice cracked and broken, he tilted his head back to see Eskel, then to the others. _Was it allowed?_ He couldn’t take another - not like that. Too much. He’d die. He was certain of it. His brain would just bleed out of his ears and his heart would detonate in his chest. Every part of him was shaking uncontrollably; Geralt would tear his body in two and there would be nothing left.

Eskel licked Geralt’s marked throat and removed his hand. “I’ll allow it.”

Geralt shifted back towards the wall and held his arms out in a gesture for Lambert to come to him. He moved unsteadily, his legs still shaking and every muscle in his core wrecked with tension. With Eskel’s help, he managed to straddle Geralt’s thighs, and looked down at the huge length that awaited him with no small amount of trepidation. Lambert’s thoughts had now scattered to the wind again, skin filmed in sweat, he could feel his final tenuous links to reality straining. Geralt hooked two fingers through his collar and pulled him forward; Lambert collapsed onto his chest, falling into the kiss waiting for him, but unable to muster much control of his own mouth. He could feel Geralt’s cock sliding up the cleft of his ass, smoothing through the mixture of Eskel and Jaskier that coated his ass and thighs, his chest vibrating with lascivious growls. 

“Got one more for me?” Geralt purred, his voice so low it sounded like it vibrated from the bowels of the earth. Lambert couldn’t answer, because the cock that pushed into his aching hole made him want to scream, but the only sound that escaped him was choked sob. It felt so fucking good. None of his muscles wanted to obey, and he had to stay slumped against Geralt, his head now resting on his shoulder as strong hands scooped beneath his thighs and moved his hips in slow, measured rolls. 

Jaskier coiled around Eskel from behind, chin on his shoulder, legs curled over his hips and arms wrapped around his chest. The bard stroked his fingers idly across the tender skin at the crease of Eskel’s thighs, partly because he liked the reminder that he had access to his Witchers’ most vulnerable places, but also because it made Eskel hard again. They watched their come drip down Geralt’s cock, pooling at his balls, and knew it was driving him wild, because his eyes rolled back and his head fell against the wall behind him. 

Heels dug into the mattress for leverage, Geralt drove himself up into Lambert with greater pace, eliciting sobbing moans of overwrought pleasure. There was a line between pleasure and pain that was difficult to walk, but Lambert was there, sprinting down it at full pace. His vision faded grey at the edges and he gasped into Geralt’s neck as his body spasmed with each penetration. There might have been another climax, but there was nothing to spill and his muscles just clenched and shuddered through it, his senses obliterated. Lambert mouthed against the side of Geralt’s neck because the taste of sweat was bitter enough to keep him linked to reality, to feel the heat fill him to the brim when Geralt came.

The broad chest beneath him heaved, soothing palms gliding over his back and thighs even as he stayed impaled on Geralt’s lap. Geralt pressed his face into sweaty brown hair, “You did so well, little wolf. So good. Perfect.” 

Lambert allowed himself to slip into bliss.

***

Geralt moved Lambert gently from his lap and laid him down on his back. The others joined him and together they unclipped the cuffs, collar and harness. Eskel fetched the water and soft cloths that Jaskier had prepared and cleaned Lambert with gentle reverence, still talking softly as hazy eyes failed even to track his movements.

“Is he alright?” Geralt murmured, cupping Lambert’s face and tilting it towards him. He stroked his fingers over his jaw and then behind his ear. There was no response other than a vague blink in his direction.

“He is. It’s fine. This was his most intense session yet. We demanded a lot,” Jaskier whispered softly, stroking Lambert’s thigh with open, soft palms. The purpose of the requests had been to take the edge off, and continue to train him to ask for things he wanted and needed; Jaskier was proud of him for using them. “Need to be careful of the drop. It could be quite steep. And it might set in much later rather than straight away. I’ll go get the warm tea from the kitchen, and all his blankets are over there on the chair.” 

Geralt helped Eskel finish cleaning Lambert’s skin, and then held him as Eskel applied cooling salve to affected areas. Even a Witcher would feel their session later, and just because it ‘healed quickly’ didn’t give them the right to dismiss Lambert’s discomfort, whether it lasted a few hours or a day. “Don’t tell him about this,” Eskel grumbled. “He’d be mortified.”

“Mmm.” Geralt agreed, cradling Lambert to his chest and keeping his face tucked away. They wrapped him in blankets and stripped away the soiled linens and clothes, leaving them dumped in the corner for now. By the time Jaskier returned with the tea, they were both cleaned up and tucked under the covers with Lambert between them. The bard set the tray down at the foot of the bed and sat beside it with his lute across his lap, strumming gentle melodies as Eskel and Geralt held Lambert close.

***

The following day, they returned to the pressing chores that needed finishing before the heavy snows fell.

“Hey Geralt.” Lambert called down from the scaffold as he splashed another spade of mortar onto the wall. “How can you tell if a Witcher is a pyromaniac?”

 _Oh fucking hell._ “I don’t know. How can you tell a Witcher is a pyromaniac?” 

“By his ins-igni-a!” 

Geralt rolled his eyes. “That… what the fuck, Lambert?”

“You always were a humourless prick. S’why I love you. Pass me that brick.”


End file.
